


A Year Apart (is not nearly enough)

by Secret_H



Series: Sam I Am [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Artistic License, DJ Sam, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Episode Related, Episode: s05e04 The End, Gen, Mechanics, Recovery, Run-On Sentences, Sam-Centric, grammar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secret_H/pseuds/Secret_H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse is not the end of the world. Humans can get used to living in any kind of environment for as long as it doesn't kill them.<br/>Sam takes a year off to rest and recovery. He would say it was a journey of self-discovery, but he honestly wouldn't want to know his self even if he thought it was possible at this point. Mostly he just keeps his head down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Year Apart (is not nearly enough)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a thing that I haven't been working on. An AU because really, I cannot even begin to think of catching up with this show at this point. Don't be surprised if I come back to edit the facts completely.

He no longer asked himself, (or god or the universe at large,) how he had gotten where he was. 

He used to do that all the time when he was a kid, and then during high school, then while lying awake next to Jessica, while lying awake a bed away from Dean, while lying awake next to “Ruby”, while lying awake watching Castiel watch Dean, and ultimately while lying awake in an empty motel room. He would lie awake, and beg the question, “How did I get here?” How did life bring him to this point? What could he have done to deserve this? 

These moments hadn't been pleasant at the time, and yet now they were treasured. Now, these were memories that he could be sure were his. Sam’s: not a man whose wife and kids were murder while he was away and not some strange conglomeration of both. 

They weren’t all happy, (it was actually depressing to think of how very little happiness that he could remember sticking out in his life,) but he felt a certain possessiveness over them, these few memories, because he was sure that he had experienced them, and there were less of those than he would like to admit. 

Because, there were few things that anyone could be sure of anymore. No one could say, with any real certainty, that their family was still their family. It was even more uncertain that friends would still be friends the next time met. One couldn’t make the claim that they would be in for work the next day, that they might survive the next week; it was the apocalypse, after all. 

Sam had always known, of course, the danger the world had held, and that there was never any assurance of survival. Everyone may have been aware that the world was a spontaneous and cruel place where you could be taken out at anytime, whether by a bus or a vengeful spirit, but knowing it as a distant truth and being faced with it all of the time were two very different life styles. 

Before, there were hunters and there were civilians. Now, there were people who were prepared, people who tried to prepare, and people who were idiots that needed to stop wasting bullets and stick with salt. Because, despite the still impending destruction of the world, life had continued. Some countries had reacted better than others, and the US, for all that the Armageddon was taking place on good ol’ American soil, had been one of them. Said reaction mostly consisted of doing nothing, but there wasn’t much a government body could do for judgment day. There had been panic in the beginning, (and on a side note, the price of salt, silver, and oil had sky rocketed,) but demonic, supernatural, and angelic activity or no, the world was still existing so people moved on like only humans could.

Sam had moved on. Kind of. Sort of. Not really.

There were many things that someone could get over. Death of a mother: easier if they didn't remember her. Estrangement from their family: well, that had resolved itself. Horrific death of a girlfriend: a close family member may prove helpful. Death of a father: they were still estranged. Horrific death of a love interest; more or less used to it. Horrific death of a brother: okay, so one might not really get over that, but luckily there are angels who can bring them back to life, dick-ish reasoning or no. Jump starting the apocalypse may take some time to forgive one’s self for, but absolution is possible. 

One will note, however, that losing one’s body to Satan was not on the list. Then again, it had only been two years, one of which Sam was desperately trying to block out, so who knows. Given enough time he could be "over it", but he doubted that he ever would be. It had taken a lot of alcohol and chick flick moments to get through the trials of the life of Sam Winchester, the life of Nick Hill hadn’t exactly been rainbow and sunshine as much as a bitter sprinkle on top, and a year as Lucifer’s pet whatever was not conductive for sanity. 

The man who was the sum or product of all of these things and more worked behind the bar of some underground-like club in what was once a smaller than average size city, (though it would be consider on the larger side at present,) and went by the name John. John Smith, if he was pressed for a last name, but people didn’t really do that kind of thing anymore. He was of a moderate height, mid 30’s, and with a just-ever-so-slightly receding hairline. He had tattoos, a few the kind that many safety conscious people got in these time, and others that were uncomfortable to look at directly. 

John was polite and intelligent. He kept to himself, wore lots of silver, knives, and a rather blatant gun. Some noticed that he re-dyed his hair black whenever the roots started to show and flinched whenever someone snuck up on him, rare though that was, but no one called him out on it. They never asked about his past; John wasn’t really all there. It was in less of a crazy way and more of a distant way. He didn’t hang around, didn’t have friends, and didn’t have interests. He would occasionally DJ if they were in-between them for any reason. When asked, he murmured about picking up somewhere, and got a sad, if confused, look on his face. 

In the privacy of his mind, John referred to himself as Sam, or Sammy if he was feeling maudlin, or Nick if he had those dreams, or Samuel if he had those nightmares. 

John/Sam/(Nick?) had created something of a new life for himself, if one were to consider it living. He felt that he had stopped when he left Dean. And then he lost his body. And then he had been dragged to hell in a new if used one. He had only just managed to make that deal with an upstart demon named Crowley, given one year of absolute freedom under the grid, but only after one year in hell. That time, of course, was spent with the devil himself. But more than that, it was the beginning of his new existence which mostly consisted of waiting. Waiting to be freed, and then waiting for that time to be up. Waiting to be caught or discovered. Waiting for his life’s karma to kick in and bring him back into the world. He was still waiting, because something would happen eventually.

The infinite patience was a new found skill, he thought. Maybe something he picked up from Lucifer.


End file.
